


New Life (II)

by mistrali



Category: Emelan - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-18 09:35:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10614189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistrali/pseuds/mistrali
Summary: Rosethorn's first day at Discipline. Shameless fluff.





	

Lark comes home to blessed, sweet ruckus. The fire is blazing despite its being mid-afternoon, and there's a boiling pot of stew on the hearth. The smell of it - rich, creamy vegetables and broth - sets Lark's stomach rumbling. Some fear inside her, the dread born of living for months on begged scraps, curls up and settles. This is better than the slop she's slowly, tortuously, learning to cook.

Outside, her new housemate is digging. At the sound of her name, Rosethorn looks up, and Lark has to stop herself from staring. Rosethorn's hair is a little mussed by the wind. Her habit, even rumpled and windblown and with twigs caught in it, accentuates the muscles in her calves and ankles - and habits are not stitched to be flattering, as Lark well knows.

It could be Mila of the Grain herself standing there, except that Lark thinks Mila would be more perfect, and so less beautiful. 

"Yes?" It's clipped, brusque. "In future, unless someone's dying, don't call me out of my garden."

Lark gives her warmest talking-to-creditors smile. Dedicate Yarrow did warn her, after all.

"I'm Lark. I wanted to say hello, and thank you for midday."

Rosethorn leans on her spade and peers at Lark. "Well, Lark, you've said it. Why are you whispering?"

"I get the wheezes. They're worse in spring and summer." And on days, like this one, spent scrubbing oils and incense off the ceremonial dishes. Her fingers still smell like patchouli.

Rosethorn drops the spade and crosses the few steps into the house, past Lark and into the small cloakroom that serves as their temporary storehouse. "I have medicines for that. If those Air idiots have stored the boxes properly, I should be able to find... ah." She draws out a vial of thick yellowish liquid. 

"The Water temple already gave me medicine," protests Lark. "They said too much could upset my stomach."

Rosethorn frowns at her. "How long since you've taken it?" she asks, oddly gently.

Lark shakes her head. "Two days, maybe. Anyway, I'm not going to die of it. It's only wheezes." She starts to laugh and trails off, feeling her breath come short. She wants to mutter a curse, but can't. Instead she settles for twisting her hands in her lap, as over imaginary sewing.

"Ah, yes. 'Only' wheezes." Rosethorn hands her a small cup. "And yes, they can kill you. The allergies - reactions - make your lungs close up. Sip that, don't gulp." 

"What's in this?" asks Lark, eyeing the vial.

"Garlic, ginger root and valerian, among other things." She grins. "Don't worry, I poison weeds, not people. Unless they irritate me." 

She pulls out her medallion. Sure enough, there on the silver is Moonstream's sign for a proper healer, same as the Water people wore. Either Rosethorn is a very good liar - and something in her manner tells Lark otherwise - or she really does know what she's doing. Obediently Lark sips the yellow goo, which is flavoured faintly with mangoes.


End file.
